


21st century aliens

by curiositykilled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Family, BAMF Bucky Barnes, Depression, Gen, Identity Porn, M/M, Memory Loss, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Sort of? - Freeform, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Tony Stark Has A Heart, but like passive self-harm, i think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6967321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Captain America comes out of his icy sleep, he has no memory of his past life. Then, a strange call leads to a friendship that leads Steve to reconcile who he is and who he was.</p><p>AKA, that one where Steve loses his memories, too, and he and Bucky try to help each other get them back</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                 Natasha skids into the couch, socked feet _whishing_ over the hardwood before she props herself against the back. Her red hair’s still blonde at the bottom of her ponytail, almost grown out but not quite. She grins down at him.

                  “Running over to help with Lucky,” she says. “Get the phone if it rings?”

                  “Sure,” Steve agrees. “What’s with Lucky?”

                  He lifts his head from the armrest as she pulls away and watches her détourné into the kitchen with a small smile. She mentioned, once, that she’d been a ballerina for the time, and every once in a while, he gets to see it. He hasn’t asked yet what kind of mission required ballet, but he will. Eventually. There’s a lot in his “to ask later” box.

                  “Bathtime,” Natasha answers from the kitchenette.

                  Steve laughs and drops back against the couch. He takes up all of it, shoulders nestled into the junction of armrest and cushion, but it feels cozy, secure. He goes back to reading. He helped, once, with bathtime. As it turns out, Eau de Wet Dog isn’t his favorite fragrance.

                  “Have fun,” he calls as she walks out.

                  There’s a soft thud as the door closes, the click of the latch, and then it’s still. The TV buzzes static, thunder occasionally booms, and car horns honk in the melody of a New York City thunderstorm. He breathes deep and slips back into the words of his book.

_Bzzt. Bzzt._

                  Steve blinks, glances up from his book. It’s not coming from Natasha’s cell on the coffee table or his cell on the back of the couch. He tucks a finger into his book and stands. There’s another plaintive buzz, and he starts towards the kitchen. Five more buzzes later, and he locates an older flipphone underneath a rarely-used set of dish towels.

                  He frowns, hand around the outdated phone. It feels like an invasion of privacy, like something he doesn’t have permission to see. Natasha said to answer the phone if it rang, but he’s certain she didn’t mean this one. It buzzes again.

                  “Hello?” he says.

                  “кто ты?” a harsh voice demands.

                  Steve closes his mouth with a click.

                  “где Наталья?” the voice continues, “почему у вас ее телефон?”

                  “I’m sorry,” Steve finally manages. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

                  He sets the book down and heads towards the door. Most the team is at least conversational in another language; even Steve is, bizarrely, well-versed in French. ‘From the war, probably,’ he’s been told. When it comes to mystery languages, though, Natasha is by far the best bet.

                  “Where’s Natalia?”

                  He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. It’s the same baritone as before, but the English comes clear and natural with only a hint of an almost-familiar accent.

                  “Natasha?” he tries.

                  “Romanoff?” the voice checks.

                  “Yeah. She’s out right now,” Steve explains. “Can I take a message?”

                  He feels a little steadier now, like he’s on familiar ground. The Avengers, as a rule, don’t take each other’s calls, but he knows how to be courteous, to be correct.

                  Silence takes over the other end for a moment that stretches into two, three. Then, Steve hears muffled swearing. His eyebrows raise as he waits for an explanation.

                  “Can I help you?” he tries again.

                  “She’s supposed to – it needs,” the voice breaks off.

                  Steve continues to frown, because it doesn’t sound like a language barrier. Whoever is on the other end speaks fluent English. He doesn’t understand the problem.

                  “She’s supposed to…?” he prompts.

                  “She updates – me,” the voice finally bites out.

                  Steve hesitates. An operative needing new intel certainly trumps Lucky’s bathtime, he’s fairly sure.

                  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were calling for a mission,” he says. “If you just give me a minute-”

                   “No,” the voice interrupts. “Not – it’s not a mission.”

                  There’s another pause, tenser somehow through the phone line. Steve waits. An ex? None of this is making sense.

                  “It’s just the – the now,” the voice finally finishes.

                  Steve frowns over the broken interruption before it starts to shift into alignment. It’s not quite the way he’d ask, but the plea underneath is familiar, the dislocation and uncertainty.

                  “Like what’s going on now?” he asks. “Current events and stuff?”

                  There’s a sound on the other end that he takes for confirmation.

                  “I could – I mean, if you want,” Steve starts, “I could do that.”

                  There’s a pause, and Steve tucks his free hand into his armpit to keep it from tapping. It doesn’t, shouldn’t, matter, but he’s wound tight as a wire as he waits. He likes helping people, or at least he thinks he does. It seems right, for all that he doesn’t have a way to know. The whole two years since he was defrosted has been nothing but other people helping him, and he’s grateful for it, really, but it still itches under his skin. ‘You used to live there,’ ‘you served with him,’ ‘that’s from a speech you gave’ – he’s a blank slate with nothing to give. If he can do this just once – well, it might help.

                  “Okay.”

                  Steve starts, smacking the back of his head against a cupboard in surprise. He winces, rubs at it.

                  “Okay? Okay, great,” he says. “Yeah, so where do you want me to start?”

                  He’d be embarrassed about sounding like an idiot, but he’s pretty sure the person on the other end heard him smack his head and that’s a little more shameful. Either way, the voice on the other end falls silent for a moment, and Steve thinks he hears quiet, metallic clicking before they answer.

                  “Two-thousand two,” the voice finally says.

                  Steve blows out a puff of air while rubbing the back of his head and sifting through his mental catalogue. He missed a lot while he was on ice, not that it made much of a difference to him at the time.

                  “Been in the field awhile, huh?” he says. “Well, Michael Jackson was named Artist of the Century…”

 

\- - -

                  When Captain America was pulled from his Arctic sleep, he didn’t demand where he really was or why SHIELD tried to trick him. He didn’t seem to notice anything out-of-place about the nurse or radio. He waited with befuddled blue eyes and an innocent frown, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

                  The warning bells rang.

                  Scans were run, tests completed, but nothing gave any answers. Captain America, so far as they could tell, was a blank slate. He still had his muscle memory, fighting like an overgrown boy from Brooklyn streets, and he seemed to remember certain intrinsic things: basic care, manners, the kind of things trained into children from birth.

                  It was the history, the facts, that were missing. When shown pictures of himself from the war, he recognized his face but couldn’t say anything about the moment captured or the people surrounding him. When shown pictures of pre-war New York, he only shrugged.

                  “It’s probably from the ice,” one of the doctors said. “He was frozen for almost seventy years, after all.”

                  “He could have suffered a TBI in the crash,” another added.

                  “We have no clue,” a third admitted.

                  SHIELD didn’t need a historian. They didn’t need a storyteller. They needed a soldier. They repainted the shield, stitched up a suit, and sent him out when Loki and the Chitauri descended like locusts onto the city. They reviewed the footage later, appraised his fighting and leading and determined him fit for duty.

                  No one questioned the way his eyes slid to the left, like he was looking for someone who wasn’t there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is an oldie, but I rediscovered it and decided to throw the WIP up as I go. Am I avoiding CACW and recent comic revelations? _no, not at all_


	2. Chapter 2

                  Three weeks later, they fight Doom and his horde of bots for most the day. Most these fights are rife with jokes and jabs, but this one is silent and terse: the bots had hit a building before the team had even been alerted. They were too busy during the fight to do much, but JARVIS kept Tony updated and Tony kept the team updated. They’re still pulling bodies out of the rubble when Clint takes down the last bot.

                  Those that are able – Steve, Tony, Thor, and Natasha – lend a hand. It goes faster with the four of them helping, but there’s a mechanical stiffness to their actions. The first body Steve helps haul away is a boy with springy hair turned grey from the dust. His eyes are closed, and Steve would like to think it’s peaceful except for the gaping red hole where the boy’s chest should be.

                  By the time they debrief, even Steve is exhausted. He rubs a hand down his grubby face to stifle a yawn and nods rotely as Maria debriefs them. He is listening, really. He’s just also aching for a hot shower, a soft bed, and something to stifle the ache of guilt in his gut.

Around him, the rest of the team is equally checked out: Tony’s fiddling with a detached gauntlet, Natasha is staring down at a tablet, Clint’s tapping an arrow against his thigh, and Thor’s sleeping with his eyes open if his vacant stare is anything to go by. Bruce is the only one free, and that’s only because he already passed out from his time as the Hulk.

                  Maria sighs.

                  “Just go home,” she says. “We can get anything we need tomorrow.”

                  They stand with groans and winces and trudge out of the room in near silence. They’re a lively group most days, but none of them has the energy to spare today.

                  Steve stops in the downstairs locker room first. Technically, it’s for the security and other employees of Stark Tower rather than the Avengers. Still, the drains could suck bricks down whole, and Steve would rather not trash his apartment’s shower.

                  It’s empty right now except for a handful of senior guards. They nod to him but are otherwise unfazed by Captain America stripping down nearby. He’s grateful for the indifference. Outside of these walls, they’ve made a religion of him. They know better than him what happened in his life from memorizing every minutia ever released. He always feels like an impostor when they crowd around him, awed over events he doesn’t even remember.

                  He peels the suit off and tosses it on his shield’s carry-bag before reversing, hand reaching out without his permission. He lets it, grudgingly. There are a dozen of these moments a day: he isn’t paying attention and suddenly he’s putting an uneaten slice of pizza into the fridge instead of throwing it out or folding his dirty suit into a neat stack instead of a messy sprawl. It’s like his body spent the last sixty-seven years living with a frugal neat freak and can’t break the habit.

                  He hates it. He doesn’t need the reminder that he doesn’t remember himself, that he doesn’t really know himself. He gets it every time he looks in the mirror and doesn’t quite recognize the breadth of his shoulders or flush in his cheeks, even though this is the only body he’s ever known.

                  He hits the shower knob and winces as it creaks ominously. The water spatters out, icy cold that slowly heats up to Luke warm. He shivers and, carefully, turns it as hot as it will go. His skin breaks out in splotchy red with the heat, but he doesn’t care. He stands underneath the spray, head bowed, and watches the muck swirl down the drain.

                  He groans, finally, and rolls his neck to pop it before shutting off the water. It takes him approximately three seconds to realize he didn’t grab a towel.

                  “Shit,” he mutters, resting his forehead against the tiled wall.

                  “Forget something?”

                  He glances up to find Natasha extending a towel from outside the shower. She’s got a black eye going yellow, and she lists a little to the right, but she still drums up a tired smile. He takes the towel gratefully, and she steps away as he dries off. He loops the towel around his waist lazily and wanders out to the lockers. The room’s emptied out by now, leaving just the two of them.

                  Natasha’s tucked up on one of the benches, shoulders and head resting against a locker with more than affected fatigue. She’s wearing one of Clint’s t-shirts and Steve’s hoodies, and he doesn’t bother guessing whose the sweatpants are. He gets it, even if he can’t do the same: the only Avenger near his size is Thor, and he’s not really up to all that metal.

                  “We’re gonna’ throw on a movie in the theatre,” Natasha says. “Something cheerful.”

                  He nods, turning his back to her to drop the towel and change. He can feel her watching him, but it’s a familiar look. Checking for injuries, assessing his condition, seeing where the hardest hits fell – she does it in a way that makes him feel safe rather than queasy.

                  “Think I might just turn in early,” Steve says.

                  His voice is muffled by the t-shirt he’s pulling on, but he can still hear Natasha readjust herself against the locker.

                  “You sure?” she asks. “There’s still a spot for a foot masseuse on the couch.”

                  He turns to see her small, teasing smile, and he offers one in return. He’s too drained, too empty for much else. She doesn’t press it, though, and only stands as he picks up the shield and makes to leave. They trudge into the elevator, and Natasha hits ‘1’ and ‘9’ for the both of them. There’s silence for the seconds it takes the elevator to ascend.

                  When they reach the first floor, Natasha catches her hand in the crook of his arm and tugs slightly. He turns in time for her arms to wrap around his chest, firm, strong. He folds his around her shoulders, his head briefly resting against her head. He lets out a slow breath and closes his eyes. For a few moments, there’s nothing in the silence but the soft echo of their breaths and the low pulse of their hearts.

                  He pulls away finally, rubs once at his nose and gives her a smaller smile.

                  “Thanks,” he says.

                  She drops her shoulder in a shrug.

                  “I’ll try to save you some pizza,” she says, “but no promises.”

                  She pulls the snark back on like a suit, and he follows her lead gratefully. She’s just a few steps out of the elevator’s way with a small smile curling her lips.

                  “Well, better not be wanting that pint of Spectacular Speculoos in the freezer,” he taunts.

                  The look she levels at him is all cold lethality. He grins wider.

                  “Steven Grant Rogers-” she starts.

                  “Enjoy the movie!” he calls as the doors close.

                  It’s not too much longer to the ninth floor, and he keeps himself straight and still until the elevator’s closed behind him and left him in the peace and quiet of their shared floor. His shoulders slump forward, spine sagging with something heavier than fatigue.

                  “Captain Rogers, sir, would you like me to order food to be brought up?” JARVIS asks.

                  He should eat. He needs to eat. The serum burns through calories like gasoline, worse when he’s healing. It almost makes him sick, sometimes, the food turning to wet cardboard in his mouth just because he’s had so much of it. If he doesn’t, he’ll wake up sick and aching. He should eat.

                  “No, I’m fine,” he says.

                  He shrugs off the shield by the side of the couch and tosses his suit into the laundry chute. If he’s not going to eat, he should sleep. He sits down, heavily, onto the couch. A moment later, his head falls into his palms.

                  They’re supposed to save people. They’re supposed to be the ones that take the damage, the ones to shield civilians from risk. It’s why he’s here, isn’t it? Why he’s still useful even when he’s half a husk of who he should be?

                  His shoulders shudder with his raw lungs.

                  _Bzzt._ The phone in the kitchen rings. It rings again.

                  “Shit,” Steve swears, shoving up from the couch.

                  He wipes under his nose with the back of his wrist, digs the phone out from under the towels and flips it up against his ear.

                  “Hello,” he says.

                  It’s maybe a little sharper than he intended, the brittle edges breaking into points. There’s silence for a moment.

                  “Is Natasha – functional?”

                  Steve’s spine stiffens, hackles raising. His exhaustion and grief reshape and redirect abruptly.

                  “What,” he asks coolly, “do you mean by that?”

                  The operative doesn’t seem frightened, but there is a small sound like frustration on the other end. Steve frowns. He’s still in a futile, aggressive stance, but he remembers the last time they spoke and the odd hesitancy and word choice.

                  “Well. Is she well,” the operative corrects.

                  Steve relaxes slightly, though he’s still a little disconcerted by the operative’s first choice. What would make someone talk about a person like a machine?

                  “Yeah,” he says. “She’s fine. She’s just not here right now. Do you need something?”

                  “No,” the operative answers promptly.

                  Then, there’s silence. Steve leans back against the cabinets and slides down to the tile floor. It rapidly becomes cold through the fabric of his sweats, and there’s an insistent knob pressing into the side of his neck. He closes his eyes.

                  “Want me to keep catching you up?” he asks.

                  Silence, again. He waits. Then, tentatively:

                  “Yes?”

                  A small smile pulls his lips.

                  “2008, right?” he checks, rhetorically. “Barack Obama became the first black US president, Kosovo declared independence…”

                  He should eat. He should sleep.

                  He rests his head back against the cupboard and recites every notable event he can think of.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter has Peggy! :D
> 
> Thank y'all for the kudos and bookmarks - they feed my soul <3


	3. Chapter 3

                  The second first time he met Peggy Carter was the first time he resented the Steve Rogers who preceded him. She exuded an effortless authority and strength that made his knees weak even as it made him draw up into parade rest. He didn’t remember loving her, no, but that only made him resent the other man the more.

                  He’d apologized, during that first visit.

                  “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” he’d said. “You deserve – you deserve to be remembered.”

                  “Oh, darling,” she’d said, patting his hand. “Always so dramatic.”

                  There was a pause in which she gave him a smile, small and faintly sad, and squeezed his hand. Even soft and smooth from age, her hands had a firm grip.

                  “Perhaps it’s best this way. You can live a life of your own,” she’d said.

                  Now, he visits her every Sunday instead of going to church. He’s not sure if he was religious before the ice, but now, talk of an all-knowing, all-powerful god makes something in his stomach twist and squeeze. Maybe it has something to do with aliens and gods falling out of the sky.

                  Today is a good day: she’s sitting in the garden and looks up with a fond smile as he approaches. He presses a kiss to her cheek in the same way her grandchildren do and settles into the white wicker seat beside her. It’s unseasonably warm, the sun melting enough of the February ice to almost seem like spring. There are more winter storms to come, of course, but he appreciates the brief reprieve.

                  “Good morning, Steve,” she greets.

                  “Morning, Peggy,” he replies. “I brought some news.”

                  He extends the magazine in one hand, and she picks it up with a glimmer of delight. The nursing home keeps a subscription to the Times and Wallstreet Journal, but he’s taken to bringing in the odd international magazine he finds on the newsstands. He doesn’t know how many languages Peggy speaks, but she accepts each one with eager interest.

                  This one is no different, and she skims through a few pages with quick, hungry eyes. She sets it in her lap and folds her hands neatly over it, turning to him with a small smile.

                  “This will be handy for the day I wake up only speaking Urdu,” she teases.

                  He grins and they settle into their normal conversations. He weaves small anecdotes about the Avengers – Thor tricking Tony into thinking he didn’t understand cellphones and Natasha reprogramming JARVIS to only speak in pig Latin. She fills him in on her children and grandchildren, all grown up and seeing the world. It lulls him into something like a wakeful trance, contentedness softening his exhaustion and turning him, only briefly, away from her.

                  He’d woken on the kitchen floor, neck aching from his head dropping to his right shoulder. The phone had been closed up in his hand, the call finished. He doesn’t know when he fell asleep. Late enough that they’d gotten all the way from 2008 through 2014. He’d ended up talking about the fight, the dead little boy, and the twelve other bodies pulled out of the rubble. It had spilled out of him like tears, like blood. The operative had been silent and listened until Steve hollowed himself out with his words. In their place he’d found something a little steadier, a little more solid. When he was done, the silence had stretched for a moment longer. Then,

                  “The price of freedom is high,” the operative had said. “Someone has to pay it.”

                  It hadn’t been comforting exactly, but it had been honest. Solid.

                  “- and then the busboy turned into a nine-tailed lobster and Sharon had to defeat it by singing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’" 

                  Steve comes to with a start to find Peggy watching him, an eyebrow cocked. He flushes.

                  “Sorry, Peggy,” he says. “I guess my mind drifted.”

                  “Had it gone any further, I’m afraid your body might have started floating after it,” she rejoins.

                  His ears are hot to the tips, cheeks turned scarlet. He rubs the back of his neck and gives a bashful smile. Her amusement softens somewhat.

                  “Is something wrong, Steve?” she asks.

                  “No,” he says immediately.

                  It comes out too quickly, too defensive. He winces and relents.

                  “How long have you kept an operative in the field?” he asks.

                  Peggy’s eyebrows raise, and she shifts her gaze to the sky briefly. Eventually, she shakes her head.

                  “Undercover? Perhaps a few years,” she says. “Why?”

                  He fidgets a little, fingertips plucking at the knee of his khakis. Technically, he probably shouldn’t say anything.

                  “I’ve been talking to one,” he starts, “and they don’t have any memory of the last decade, it seems like.”

                  Peggy has leaned forward, expression calm but attentive. He weaves his fingers together to force them into stillness and frowns down at them.

                  “It’s like their memories have just been – wiped clean or something,” he finishes.

                  There’s a twitch in Peggy’s face that’s almost like a flinch, and he straightens. Before he can ask, though, her expression has smoothed out.

                  “Have you asked them about it?” she asks.

                  He shakes his head with a small huff of laughter. It’s not altogether cheerful, but Peggy doesn’t seem to judge.

                  “No,” he says. “They’ve just called a couple times. Well, called Natasha – my roommate.”

                  “I didn’t retire that long ago, Steve. I know who Natasha Romanoff is,” Peggy remarks, dry.

                  He flushes.

                  “Sorry,” he says.

                  She brushes it away with a smile, and he settles as her expression turns thoughtful. She’s seen more than he can imagine, he knows. Every once in a while, a reference to their forgotten past slips out, and he’s left blinking in shock. She apologizes every time, but he doesn’t hold it against her. The things she speaks of – guns that vaporize men, men with red skulls instead of flesh – they’re things that need to be retold among other witnesses to be believed. He only wishes he could still be one for her.

                  “There were rumors, in the ‘60s, about Russian technology that could alter memories,” Peggy says finally. “Even completely erase them.”

                  She breaks off into a coughing fit that shakes Steve out of it enough to reach for the water glass on the table before them. She takes it without looking up and swallows a few sips before pausing and staring at him. Her eyes are bright and a little distant, and his stomach twists like he’s drunk too much soda.

                  “Steve,” she whispers, in shock, in horror. “Steve, you’re alive. You came back.”

                  It’s a short walk to the station and a long ride to the tower, and he spends it looking at his feet. It’s too easy to get caught if he lifts his chin; Natasha says he wears Captain America even when he’s out of the suit. He’s never decided how he feels about that.

                  He gets back just in time to catch the same elevator as Tony. He’s in a worn black tank, safety goggles pushed back so that his dark hair sticks up in tufts and clumps. There’s grease everywhere. Steve keeps a careful space between them, mindful of his pressed khakis and new button-up. Tony gives him a once over and shifts his gaze to the tablet between his hands.

                  “See Aunt Pegs?” he asks.

                  “Yeah,” Steve says.

                  Tony nods, once, and Steve leans back against the elevator wall and wills it to move faster. They’re silent up to the third floor.

                  “I’ve got some ideas about the suit,” Tony says abruptly. “Make it a little more shield-friendly. If you want to come down to the lab sometime.”

                  Steve summons up a small smile, as genuine as he can make it. The elevator settles to a halt.

                  “Thanks, Tony,” he says as he steps off. “I’ll be sure to come check it out.”

                  Tony nods, curt, as the elevator closes. Steve heads to his room and pulls out his laptop once the door’s clicked shut. ‘Russian memory erasure’ yields about the expected results: conspiracy theories and ghost stories. He sighs and closes the window.

                  For a few moments, he stares at the empty screen. He’s never gotten around to changing the wallpaper, and a sunset paints its gold arc over Yosemite. He doesn’t think he’s ever visited there. Cross-country roadtrips weren’t overly common in the 1930s, as far as he understands. It seems like it would be nice. A break from the hustle and bustle of the city, a respite from the prying crowds. Just him and the monolithic cliffs.

                  It seems lonely.

                  He closes the laptop lid without bothering to shut down. Standing, he heads out to find Clint. He could use some target practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between this and "A Small Clock..." I'm sort of drowning in Bucky/Steve/Peggy feels ;A; save me


	4. Chapter 4

                  Clint claps Steve on the shoulder as they leave the range. He’s grinning, a little smug, and Steve can’t help but laugh. Outside, Tony’s wrapping up a phone call just outside the elevator.

                  “Don’t take it too hard, Cap: we can’t all be the world’s greatest marksman,” Clint says.

                  Tony scoffs as he clicks his phone shut. Steve’s not really surprised that he was listening: Tony seems incapable of not multitasking – and of keeping to himself.

                  “You know, the more often you say that, the less real it sounds,” Tony says.

                  Clint rolls his eyes.

                  “Best marksman that doesn’t use a robot to aim and isn’t just a ghost story,” he amends dryly.

                  “JARVIS is not a robot,” Tony objects immediately.

                  “Ghost story?” Steve asks.

                  Clint shrugs as the elevator doors open.

                  “AI, whatever,” he says. “And yeah, stories to scare the new recruits, you know: ‘if you aren’t careful, the Winter Soldier will come strangle you with his metal arm.’ That kinda’ shit.”

                  He says it mockingly, like it’s a childish fantasy, but the name rings somewhere in Steve’s chest. His skin prickles, just briefly. Before he can press, though, the doors have slid shut to take Clint back up to the residential floors.

                  “I worry about that guy sometimes,” Tony remarks.

                  Steve snorts in laughter and nods. Both the spies on the team certainly have their idiosyncrasies.

                  “So, I just made some small changes,” Tony starts as he leads the way into the lab. “Magnets on the sleeve and back to hold the shield in place, that kinda’ thing.”

                  Steve’s eyebrows raise a little, but he keeps quiet.

                  “Good afternoon, Sir, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS greets. “Sir, I have completed the tests on the electromagnetic interface between the shield and suit. It appears to function as expected.”

                  “The shield…?” Steve starts.

                  It’s laying on a metal work table, even though he’s sure he left it in its carry case upstairs. When he says as much, Tony waves it away with a hand.

                  “Yeah, just had one of the ‘bots snag it,” he says offhandedly.

                  Steve’s lips thin, but he doesn’t say anything. Tony means well. He just doesn’t always think. It’s a little ironic for one of the world’s smartest men, but Tony probably won’t appreciate that observation. Steve releases a breath and reminds himself that Tony’s trying to help.

                  He strips efficiently, folds his shirt and khakis into crisp rectangles, and pulls on the uniform. There are about thirty different zippers and Velcro strips, but he keeps those to himself. The uniform they first gave him after the ice was a hell of a lot easier to get on. It also felt like a circus performer’s unitard. He’ll take the excessive zippers.

                  “Why magnets in the sleeve?” Steve asks as he picks up the shield.

                  “Should save some time in the field. You won’t need to bother with the straps as much,” Tony says. “Plus, it looks awesome.”

                  “You sure it’ll hold in a fight?” Steve asks.

                  The shield slides into place with a silence thunk. It’s heavy but fairly comfortable: the magnet seems to distribute the weight a little differently than the shield’s straps, and it feels more grounded.

                  “You wound me, Capsicle,” Tony says. “Do I make things that don’t work?”

                     _A flash, a bang, a car he’s never seen before dropping to the ground_ – Steve flinches away from the fragments. He can feel Tony watching him, and he forces himself to focus on the shield instead. These happen, sometimes. Images, snippets – memories or something like them. They’re never enough to really help; they just leave him off-balance instead.

                  “Hey, Tony,” he starts, “do you know anything about tech that can alter memories? I heard something about the Russians experimenting back in the ‘60s.”

                  He looks up in time to see Tony’s expression flicker through something like hurt, something like pity. It vanishes quickly, but not before Steve’s stomach takes a dive. He wants to object, correct the assumption that it’s for himself, but it’s a natural thought. He should have thought of it before he asked.

                  “Memory manipulation? Cold War Russia? Come on, next you’re going to be asking about cryonics,” Tony scoffs.

                    Steve breathes out a self-deprecating laugh.

                  “Yeah, I know,” he says. “Stupid question.”

                  Tony’s expression shifts a little, uncomfortably. If Steve were feeling particularly bitter, he’d call it painful. He tries not to.

                  “I’m sorry, Steve,” Tony says. “If anything comes up, you know you’ll be the first we tell.”

                  Steve nods and slots the shield into place on his back before scooping up his stack of clothes. He tucks the clothes under his arm, sneakers dangling from his hand.

                  “It’s fine,” he assures Tony. “Thank you – for the suit and all.”

                  Tony brushes the thanks away as always, but Steve catches a faint smile on Tony’s face before he turns away. There’s a history there that he doesn’t know. He’s read enough to know that the old Steve Rogers worked with Tony’s father, but none of the history books explain the bad blood that was between them before Steve had even met Tony. He’s tried to work around it, to offer an olive branch for a fight he never started. Sometimes it works.

                  He heads to the door.

                  “Hey, Rogers,” Tony calls. “Bruce, Clint, and I were thinking of checking out that movie _Monument’s Men_. Wanna’ come?”

                  Steve hesitates. He has nothing to do tonight. Natasha’s off-grid for SHIELD, and the apartment’s empty.

                  “Sorry, already have plans,” he says. “Maybe next time?”

                  “Right,” Tony says, but Steve’s already stepping out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, poor Tony and Steve :(
> 
> Sorry this one's so short. I'm struggling to work out an actual outline for it which kinda kills the muse, plus I got distracted by some pieces of ASCSF and wowzas do I have some horrible plans for Bucky in that 'verse.
> 
> ANYWAY. [Here's](http://scifi.stackexchange.com/questions/63367/how-does-captain-americas-shield-harness-work) what Tony's modifications to the suit are based on. 
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there and hope you enjoy the story! As always, I'm over on [tumblr](http://www.curiosity-killed.tumblr.com) if you want to chat.


	5. Chapter 5

                  It’s another month before he hears from the operative again. This time, Natasha and Clint are both out in the field while the flashier team members are benched. It makes them all restless, and Steve winds up in the gym with Thor for four hours.

                  Finally, he flops onto his back on the mat. His sweat immediately slicks the vinyl, and he grimaces as Thor drops down beside him. The mat sinks into a flat-bottomed ‘v’ as they both lay there, bodies sagging with fatigue.

                  “It is difficult to be left behind while our friends go to meet danger,” Thor remarks after a moment.

                  Steve starts to nod in agreement, but it’s too awkward an angle.

                  “Yeah,” he agrees.

                  They’re quiet for a few minutes more, both of them still panting a little. Slowly, their breaths and heartrates start to even out. Steve can hear Thor’s as easily as his own, although it lacks the reverberations Steve’s makes through his bones and flesh.

                  “How are Sif and the Warriors?” he asks eventually.

                  Thor inhales slowly, his barrel chest rising slowly and then compressing.

                  “They are well, I believe,” he says. “It has been some months since we spoke.”

                  “Oh,” Steve says, stupidly. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”

                  Beside him, Thor’s shoulder shifts in a shrug. His hands are loosely laced over his stomach and gaze directed to the ceiling. From this view, he’s unreadable.

                  “Months are very little in the face of millennia,” Thor says. “I imagine you will understand someday.”

                  Something cold slides up Steve’s spine at Thor’s words. _Millennia._ He doesn’t want to think about outliving the few people he knows, much less having to force himself through hundreds of years after that.

                  The conversation dwindles after that.

                  He makes it back to his floor unimpeded. Inside, he pauses to let out a huff of air before heading to the shower. His skin’s dry, but it still feels tacky and stiff from sweat. He scrubs at it a little mindlessly, his thoughts refusing to settle.

                  After, he’s a little lost. It’s only five o’clock: he has hours till he can really go to bed. He stands adrift in the doorway for a few more minutes before finally propelling himself to the kitchen. Natasha will be suspicious if she comes home to all the same food in the fridge. He doesn’t really want a repeat of last time: her, angry and worried, and him, flushed with shame.

                  He starts digging for leftovers, but there’s not much: with both their metabolisms, he and Natasha tend to eat what’s set before them. Sighing, he resigns himself to either ordering in or struggling through cooking. His stomach gives a disconcerted twist at the thought of more takeout. _Cooking it is._

                  He’s poking through the bottom of the fridge when the phone rings. He startles, smacking his head on the shelving, and winces.

                  “This is ridiculous,” he mutters.

                  He tugs the phone out from the bottom of the drawer with one hand while rubbing his head with the other.

                  “Hello,” he greets.

                  If he sounds perkier than usual – well, no one but the operative on the other end has to know. There’s a pause.

                  “Hello?” the operative replies uncertainly.

                  Steve leans his hips back against the counter, his free hand cupping the edge.

                  “I wasn’t sure I’d hear from you again,” he admits, “since we went through just about everything to update you.”

                  “Understood,” the operative says.

                  There’s a small hush like a phone being pulled from an ear, and Steve nearly jumps.

                  “No, wait!” he yelps. “I didn’t – sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

                  He hesitates, but there isn’t the click of the call ending.

                  “Sorry,” he repeats. “I – I’m happy to talk.”

                  There’s no reply, but he can hear the soft sound of breaths on the other end as if the operative has returned the phone to their ear. Steve squeezes his free arm around his chest, hand hooked under his other elbow. It doesn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter – but there’s something about the calls that draws him back.

                  “We never really introduced ourselves. I’m Steve,” he says. “What should I call you?”

                  On the other end, there is a hitch and sudden tension. Steve opens his mouth to apologize.

                  “The Ass-”

                  The voice breaks off and pauses. Still leaning against the counter, Steve’s forehead wrinkles in confusion.

                  “Soldier,” they finally say.

                  There’s that tension again, wound tight like they’re waiting for a punch to the face. Steve speaks before his brain’s caught up.

                  “Think it might be a little forward to start calling you an ass.”

                  _Jesus Christ._ He drops his head to his hand, careful not to jostle the phone. _Jesus H Christ, you are a piece of work, Rogers._ There’s silence on the other end, and he readies himself to apologize for the impropriety. Whatever else this is, it’s still an operative calling on a secured line. It’s not a joke.

                  Abruptly, there’s a low, breathy laugh on the other end.

                  “Don’t got a lot in the way of self-preservation, do you?” Soldier says.

                  Steve’s breath catches in a laugh, and he grins despite himself. There’s another fragment tickled partially loose by the statement, but he can’t quite grasp it. He ignores it.

                  “Not the first time I’ve heard that,” he admits. “I’m kind of a walking target.”

                  Everyone on the team except Thor and Bruce have brought it up before: the shield paints a bull’s eye on his back, and it makes the others nervous. For some reason, he can’t quite bring himself to change it, though. It’s a symbol to the world, but that’s not quite it.

                  “Not sure you can talk, though,” Steve adds after a moment. “Trusting a stranger to keep you updated.”

                  There’s a sound on the other end like a body shifting, the rustle of fabric and creak of leather.

                  “Don’t have a choice,” Soldier replies.

                  Something shifts in Steve’s chest like a glass precariously balanced. Surprise isn’t a common feeling for him: everything is new, so everything is met with the same bland acceptance. This, though, this is new.

                  “Know something about that,” he admits. “Amnesia?”

                  “Something like that,” Soldier says.

                  Steve winces a little, but it feels good, in a selfish way. Someone else gets it. Someone else understands without pitying eyes and slowed-down speech.

                  “It’s a bitch, isn’t it?” he says.

                  There’s that little huff of air on the other end, and he grins fully.

                  “Affirmative,” Soldier says.

                  Still grinning, Steve shifts back to his previous task. He ends up pulling out a half-empty carton of eggs, a bag of shredded cheese, and what remains of a gallon of milk. Eggs it is.

                  “Get a million questions a day?” Steve asks.

                  There’s a noncommittal hum on the other end. After a moment, there’s the rasp and click of a bolt sliding back. Steve tugs the phone away from his ear before the retort of the gunshot. He scowls at the phone before returning it to his hear.

                  “Little warning next time?” he says, dry.

                  There’s noise on the other end: the metallic scrape of a shell casing being grabbed from concrete, the click of a gun being dismantled, and the rustle of fabric being shifted into a standing position.

                  “Sure,” Soldier says indifferently.

                  There’s the rapid thump of footfalls, and Steve turns on speakerphone before setting his phone down on the counter.

                  “You got back-up?” Steve asks.

                  He probably shouldn’t. Soldier hasn’t offered up any information on what he’s doing. It’s not Steve’s place to pry.

                  “Negative,” Soldier answers.

                  Their voice is still crisp and easy, even though Steve can hear them running. It takes until he’s cracked all of the eggs into a glass bowl and poured in a splash of milk for him to realize what’s off about the footsteps.

                  They’re the same pace as his.

                  He pauses, bowl half in the microwave, and turns towards the phone with a small frown. He slides the bowl all the way onto the inner tray and pokes in 60 seconds on the timer. Plucking up the phone, he settles in with it one hand and watches the timer tick down. He’s pretty sure he can hear gunshots.

                  “Do you need some?” he asks.

                  “Negative,” Soldier repeats.

                  The eggs are starting to bubble up above the rim of the bowl, and Steve lunges to pop open the microwave door.

                  “Do you need me to hang up?” he asks.

                  The eggs deflate as he cuts into them with the edge of a fork, slipping back into the pale gold yolks. He scoots the bowl back fully into the microwave and sets the timer again.

                  “Negative,” Soldier replies again, but this time Steve thinks he hears a smirk.

                  “Don’t got a lot of self-preservation, do you?” Steve quips back.

                  He hears distant shouts on the other end, but even his hearing can’t make out words. Then, abruptly it’s quiet.

                  “I’ll survive,” Soldier says.

                  It’s not teasing or cheeky like Steve expects. It’s hollow, somehow, aching. They’ll survive – but at what cost? Steve’s skin has suddenly gone cold, and he swallows hard. Before he can ask more the call disconnects.

                  When the eggs are done, they taste ashy and wet like rain after a house fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw Thor. 
> 
> Sorry this one's been so delayed: I've been struggling a little with it. But here it is! Hope you enjoy.
> 
> Been listening to/watching [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aHUrAvKNF8s) nonstop while I write. Go check it out bc it's a m a z i n g !
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos - they're legit my lifeblood <3


	6. Chapter 6

                He wakes up on the couch, behind his eyes pulsing with a resounding headache. Pressing his fingertips into the ridge of his eye sockets doesn’t do much to alleviate it. The lights are too bright, fluorescent white burning his eyes like frostbite.

                “Shit,” he mumbles.

                “Captain Rogers, sir, may I assist you?” JARVIS asks.

                “No,” he says. “It’s just-”

                Nightmares, flashes, ricochets of images and noises. There was a train, he thinks, or maybe the inside of a jet. He was screaming in the dream. He hopes it wasn’t aloud.

                “No, sir,” JARVIS answers when he asks. “Captain, are you sure you would not like medical attention? My sensors detect an elevated heartrate and adrenaline.”

                Steve can’t help smiling wryly at that.  Of course Tony has their rooms equipped to track that kind of thing. For a moment, he wonders if Tony has it in his own floor to keep an eye on his panic attacks.

                “JARVIS, does Tony keep that data?” he asks.

                “The data compiled by my biofeedback sensors is temporarily stored on an encrypted network and deleted every twelve hours,” JARVIS replies. “Sir only examines them in the case of emergency.”

                Steve nods, a little more settled. He draws in a slow breath and exhales evenly. He repeats it till his hands stop shaking.

                “Captain, if you are well, Sir is asking for you,” JARVIS says, then.

                “Patch him through,” Steve says.

                Immediately, his phone lights up with an image of Tony’s lab. At first, it’s just the lab – one of the robots holding a half-empty smoothie, the shimmering blue edge of a hologram, the bare concrete floor. Then Tony pops in from one side. For an instant, his expression is scrutinizing, serious. It’s gone quick enough for him to wave away but not quick enough for Steve not to notice.

                “Freezer burn!” Tony exclaims. “How’s it hanging?”

                Steve shakes his head and leans back against the sofa with his phone propped up in one hand. He can’t help a small smile, even as his skull pounds with the vestiges of his headache. As if on command, the lights dim to a soft glow.

                “What do you need, Tony?” he asks.

                “It’s not about what you can do for me, Cap,” Tony says, “but what _I_ can do for _you._ ”

                Steve waits. After a moment, Tony relents and flings his arms up.

                “Your museum’s open!” he declares.

                “My – _what?_ ”

                Tony’s hands flick and images start filling the screen instead of his face. Steve’s portrait, with the flag billowing around him, his hand raised in salute; banners proclaiming quotes that he’s never seen but are credited to him; an overarching white pavilion strewn with Americana décor. _Oh_ , he thinks with a stifled groan. _Right._ The Shrine. The images vanish to show Tony again.

                “C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Tony says. “We can laugh at the propaganda and see how they try to pretend away the gay.”

                Despite himself, Steve snorts. Tony grins, triumphant. Before he can launch into a greater spiel, Steve relents.

                “Okay, fine,” he says, “but we’re not going in full costume.”

                “Killjoy,” Tony rejoins with a grin.

                He pauses before hanging up, expression turning briefly solemn.

                “You doing okay, Steve?” he asks.  

                Steve drums up a smile and nods.

                “Of course,” he affirms.

                The call disconnects, and he shoves himself to his feet. A hoodie and loose t-shirt cover his chest and shoulders. A navy baseball cap hides his blonde hair. Outside, he’ll pull on the aviators to hide his eyes and roll his broad shoulders forward into a slouch. It’s the best disguise he can manage, even if Natasha always laughs at it. She says he wears Captain America even without the uniform. He’s never decided how he feels about it, that he was Captain America before he was Steve Rogers in this life.

                Tony’s waiting for him on the ground floor, kitted out in an Air Force sweatshirt that Steve’s sure he bought just to tease Rhodes. There’s no disguising his goatee, but he has on the same hat-and-aviator attempt as Steve.

                “Looking good, Frosty,” Tony greets.

                Steve rolls his eyes but doesn’t object when they slide into a sleek grey car and drive to three blocks away from the park the exhibit’s in. They walk up from the side, and Steve can’t stop himself from wincing at the small crowd already gathering. It’s not too busy, thankfully, but there are still small bunches of visitors filtering into the pergola-sheltered exhibit. He forces himself to relax out of the defensive posture he goes to, loosen his tight shoulders and lower his wary gaze.

                The greeter at the entrance smiles bright and sunny as they approach. Steve wonders if she’s actually seeing them or just another nondescript couple. He hopes the latter, for his own sake.

                “Hi there! Welcome to Captain America: The Living Legend Open Exhibit,” she chirps. “The brochure includes a suggested path, but the exhibit is open for exploration. Have a great day!”

                Tony smiles, and Steve thanks her, accepting the brochures for Tony. He promptly plucks one out of Steve’s hands, all easy nonchalance. Steve flips open the brochure and winces as he skims through it. It seems they only barely kept themselves from adding halos around the older shots: everything is faintly glowing with effusive praise.

                “Here we go,” Tony says.

                He starts a beeline towards one of the stations, and Steve follows. No one pays them any mind.

                The station Tony leads them to is headed with a tarpaulin banner the same color as Steve’s uniform and white text: _‘From this day to the ending of the world, we in it shall be remembered.’_ Underneath are six big panels with portraits painted in loving detail onto them. Steve recognizes the men from dossiers he read trying to get his memories back.

                Beside him, Tony fidgets a little.

                “Figured you’re probably sick of reading about yourself all the time,” he says.

                Steve smiles, small but genuine, and claps Tony on the shoulder before turning towards the panels. Each one is nearly as tall as him, the portraits done in firm strokes of blue on a darker backdrop. White text trots out their bios and notable quotes. Three are still alive, probably laying back with grandkids toddling around them. Steve smiles a little at the thought.

                The other three have white laurels edging the bottoms of their panels with the dates of their death in the center. 2009 – Morita with a heart attack in his Southern California home; 1973 – Falsworth with a bullet to the head in Vietnam; and of course 1945 – Barnes with a hurtling train in the Austrian Alps.

                Steve lingers in front of the last a little longer than the others. It’s positioned in the peak of the check-mark formation of panels, intentionally prominent even as it fits in with the others seamlessly. His best friend according to some books; his lover, according to others. He doesn’t know which is right, of course. He’s seen the footage of the two of them – his eyes watching Barnes like he was all the stars of night wrapped up in dark hair and shadowed eyes – but he’s never found any mention of a relationship in the old notebooks they recovered from Rogers’ effects.

                “This guy was responsible for my great pansexual awakening,” Tony remarks.

                Steve’s nose wrinkles at the images that conjures up, but he can’t exactly blame him. Barnes was handsome with his grey-blue eyes and broad, sharp features. He'd look just as right on a clothing ad as in a war memorial.

                “Just glad it wasn’t Rogers,” Steve says.

                Tony gets a look that has Steve hurriedly shifting their attention to the last two panels.

                “Oh, they remembered that hat,” he declares needlessly.

                “I don’t think anyone would recognize him without it,” Tony says.

                Dugan’s grinning, caught in a laugh, in his portrait. Tony lets himself be distracted by the quotes there, and Steve lets himself get distracted by Tony’s commentary. It’s easy to relax here, with Tony making it all out to be a laugh. It’s not like watching love unfold on his face for a man he never met.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve is such a drama queen jeez.
> 
> [This](https://www.mericamade.com/design/148535-my-boyfriend-is-so-fly-air-force-tank/bb453-white_black-xs?gclid=CjwKEAjw4dm6BRCQhtzl6Z6N4i0SJADFPu1nL5vy4J0gvPVlvLPQobtGyGx4_3d-SRiy01Vpyz1iWBoCbFHw_wcB&special=liberty10) is the design on Tony's sweatshirt.
> 
> The banner heading is, of course, paraphrased from the [St. Crispin's Day Speech](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Crispin%27s_Day_Speech) from _Henry V_. As overused as it gets to be, that speech still gives me chills.
> 
> Also, in this, Monty died serving in a similar role to [ Richard Noone's.](http://thevietnamwar.info/united-kingdom-involvement-vietnam-war/)
> 
> Thanks so much for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks! They seriously make my day.
> 
> As always, I'm on [ tumblr](http://www.curiosity-killed.tumblr.com) if you want to chat :)


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